Fingerprints on a Glass Wall
by wordsbypax
Summary: After the battle in Washington D.C. the Winter Soldier is trying to figure out who he is but it's turned out to be a lot more painful than he had expected. His mind is all over the place, seeing things, hearing voices. Especially that one voice... That one voice that would eventually save him, but also condemn him to captivity.
1. Chapter 1

GHOSTS

It had been 37 days since the incident in Washington D.C. It turned around on a moldy cardboard it had been using as a bed, not that it could really sleep, and looked at the concrete ceiling.

"James Buchanan Barnes," it said to itself slowly, struggling with every letter.

It was the eighth time it had said those names in the last hour. James Buchanan Barnes, that's what the man had called it. The names sounded familiar, maybe the Winter Soldier had killed him once, maybe he was a target once. A long time ago. Its mind was blurred from the cryo-sleep it had been put to and woken up from repeatedly.

It pushed itself up from the ground and leaned its back against the damp wall. It shook its head aggressively, trying to remove its thoughts, its memories. James Buchanan Barnes. It was a name, yes. It wasn't its name. It was the Winter Soldier. An asset, a weapon, a thing. Giving it a human name seemed useless, and confusing.

The man on the bridge, he had called it something else too.

Bucky.

That wasn't a human's name. Or so it thought at least. It was a name... for a pet. A dog, maybe.

Bucky.

That name hurt to remember. Every little corner of its mind felt stretched out too far. Too many memories. It rubbed its temples violently, and pulled the hoodie tighter around itself.

Cold.

After the battle in D.C. it had found a secure location, an abandoned factory at the outskirts of New York. New York felt familiar, it felt safe. It had stolen some clothes and money and was now hiding in that clammy factory.

It was confused. What was it supposed to do now? Its handler, more likely than not, was now dead. Did it mourn? Not particularly. But it felt a sense of duty towards Hydra, like it had to go back. It didn't want to go back, though. It didn't even remember why it was in Hydra. How did it get there. Did it enlist?

It had to go back. Obligation, responsibility. It had to. Duty, duty. Duty, it had a duty. It was its obligation.

It didn't want to go back. They hurt it. Made it go to sleep when it didn't want to. Made its head hurt. Screams, it remembered screams. Frightening screams, and it tasted plastic in its mouth.

It had to go back.

Maybe it had a new mission. It had to complete its mission. It should probably look for a new handler. It knew there were many, so many more Hydra agents left alive, sleepers, active ones, they were everywhere. S.H.I.E.L.D. had only managed to scrape the skin of Hydra. They were everywhere, it could hear them.

It couldn't breathe. It scratched at its throat with its metal arm. It felt as though it was suffocating. Maybe Hydra had installed a safety measure. It drew quick shallow breaths while its metal fingers dug into the skin on its throat. It started cackling. It was dying.

It saw a hazy blue light above it. It tried to move only to learn it was tied down. It was tied to a some sort of table. Metal. It felt metal under its bare back, cold and harsh. There were faces above it, looking at it, measuring its movements. Pencil scraping against paper.

"James Buchanan Barnes," it said, its lips shaky, its voice weak. "32557," it added, then it snapped back.

The number reminded it of something. It hurt, its mind stretched even further now. Its consciousness felt thin and worn out. It rubbed its temples again.

Bucky?

No. Not this, not again. Wipe me. Wipe me!

Start over, wipe me. It rubbed its head with its shaky hands. It was having its own thoughts, so many thoughts... voices. Screams mostly, people in pain. Pain it had caused. It was unstable. It had to report itself to the nearest handler, they could make it all go away. It could get wiped. Forget. Forget it all. Wipe me. It was erratic.

The agony of the continuous mind wipes, the cryo, it hated them. But it needed them right now. It was losing control. It pulled out a gun and loaded it.

Safety measure.

It took the safety off, looked at the gun and frowned.

Bucky?

Who the hell is Bucky?

Too many voices. With steady hands, it lifted the gun to its head. It looked down the steel barrel and it saw something, someone. It saw a man. It saw the man on the bridge. But he was different. Smaller. Frail, sickly. A tiny man. The Winter Soldier could have killed him, but it had suddenly lost its will to finish the mission.

Steve?

No no no. It hurts! Wipe me. Wipe me! Now!

It brought the gun closer to its head, placed its barrel against its temple and started trembling. It whimpered, like a trapped animal, it noticed.

It had to find a handler. It had to get into a stable state.

It didn't want to go.

It screamed. Like a predator in pain, it screamed long and loud as it threw the gun away. It was a spine-chilling scream, cold and disturbing. It started to feel tears running down its cheeks.

No. No not this. No tears. No crying.

It quickly wiped away the tears with the back of its human hand.

No tears.

Bucky?

Shut up!

It pushed itself up and away from the wall, grabbed the nearest box and threw it through the air. The silent factory was momentarily filled with echoes and the sound of the box scraping the concrete floor as it landed and slid further away.

Your name is James Buchanan Barnes.

No it's not.

You are my friend.

You are my mission.

It hadn't completed the mission. It had failed. It had let the man live, it had saved the man from drowning. Why?

Its head started to hurt. It always hurt when it was out of cryo for too long, without a wipe for too long. It needed a goddamn wipe!

It was cold, and it saw snow. It was May, there wasn't supposed to be snow. It walked towards the snow. Following the path treaded by heavy boots. About twenty yards away it saw men. Six, seven men. All hunching over something. The snow creaked under its boots and it ducked for cover. It walked around carefully not to make another sound. It hid behind empty crates and boxes, disappearing in the shadows of the factory while it made its way towards the men to get a closer look.

They were hunching over another man. The man had brown, short hair and he was clean shaved. His face twisted with pain. It saw agony on the man's face. Terrible unbearable suffering. It saw blood, blood everywhere. The snow around the man had turned a rosy tone.

The man's arm caught its attention. It was broken, severed. Bones sticking out, flesh and blood everywhere. Suddenly it was all too aware of its own metal arm.

"Take him to the facility," a small man said as he studied the broken man.

The other men followed his orders and tied the broken man. They tied him with ropes and started to drag him away. They dragged him away like he was an animal, nothing more but a carcass of game they caught while hunting in the forest.

It shuddered in its hiding place. The man was nothing more to them than an animal. His blue jacket was tainted with so much blood... He was screaming, still fighting. Squirming around. Trying to make an escape, his words not making any sense. His eyes started to close.

"James Buchanan Barnes," he mouthed. "32557," he added as the men dragged him through the snow. The pain was too much. And he drifted away.

It returned to the factory. The snow was gone, so was the trail of blood. It squeezed its metal hand into a fist. It returned to the cardboard bed and touched the wall gently with its fist, sliding its hand down the wall and finally sinking down on the cardboard bed.

It suited it. A bed for an animal.

It clutched to its knees like a lost child, pushed the strands of stray hair out of its face. Its bottom lip started to tremble.

Bucky?

Why, why did you show me that? Why are you making me remember things? Who are you?

I'm your friend.

Friends don't hurt their friends.

I'm sorry Buck.

It started to wail. The factory was soon filled with loud sobs and choking sounds. Too much. Too many thoughts. Too many voices. Too many memories. Make it stop.

It stared at the stained floor, wiping away its tears yet again. This time it didn't matter though. Strands of hair slipped and covered its face. It didn't matter.

And it weeped. Its throat tightening, it became hard for it to swallow. It drew heavy breaths. Shivering, on the floor of a broken factory, a broken man. A broken thing.

You are James Buchanan Barnes.

Not anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

It looked down from its hiding place.

_Bucky?_

The man was crossing the street, his head pressed down to avoid any unwanted attention. It had followed the man for over a week. It had hunched in the shadows and studied him from a distance. It didn't know the man's name. But it felt like it should.

The man turned around the corner and disappeared from its sight. It frowned.

No, that was wrong. The man wasn't supposed to do that. It had noticed a pattern, now the man was breaking it.

Wrong. It felt pressure on its forehead.

Wrong, it didn't make sense. Trying to massage the pain away, it walked to the fire escape and tried to spot the man from the crowd.

A week ago it had gone to the big, ugly tower. It needed a handler. It had started to hurt itself. It had started to lose control. It needed to be restrained. But the man hadn't been there, it hadn't seen him. It hadn't entered the tower. The security had been too tight, there was no way for it to get in unseen. And for now, it wanted to remain unseen. A ghost.

Security hadn't been the only problem. There had been so _many_ people there. It didn't like crowds. Too noisy. Too many variables it couldn't control. When it had been leaving the tower, it almost felt the snipers aiming at it. Almost saw the red dots on its chest.

It didn't remember anything else before last week. Sometimes it got glimpses of what had happened, painful memories. Its episodes had gotten more violent. It had been having nightmares, disturbing ones, so it had stopped sleeping. Darkness made it feel uneasy and bare, exposed. It didn't like feeling exposed. So it was avoiding that too.

The man walked back to his usual route and was now following his pattern.

_Bucky?_

_Shut up._

It followed him with its gaze from the rooftop. The weather was warm and it was sweating under its hoodie. The man turned left, then right and then walked in to the store, exactly like he'd done for the past week. It sat down by the edge of the roof. Its eyelids felt heavy and it struggled to keep its eyes open.

It saw blood, blood everywhere. A man in an alley, his face smashed in, damaged beyond recognition. It had blood on its metal hand. It winced and the image changed.

It saw the frail man again. He looked so sick, and weak.

_Jerk._

The image changed. It was looking at its own face, a reflection in a glass. An unfamiliar face, curves and lines it did not remember. And empty eyes. It tried to remember something, anything. Then it saw the man on the bridge, his face looking more familiar than its own did.

_Bucky?_

_Steve._

That was the man's name. Steve. It winced and the image changed. It got dark and cold. It felt immense pain in its left arm. It moved its head to see, but it was strapped to something.

It was the metal table again.

It remembered how the table felt against its bare back. Cold and sticky.

It wanted to scream. Its arm _hurt_. Why wasn't it screaming?

It tried to look at its arm again. All it saw were bright sparks and a man standing hunched over its arm. So much pain. Too much.

Its eyes shot open. It touched its metal arm to make sure it was still there. It felt the cold metal against its sweaty palm and its shoulders relaxed. It looked down to see if it had lost the man while its eyes had been closed.

It let out a sigh of relief when it spotted the blue cap from the crowd as the man walked back to the big tower.

The man turned his head and looked around. He was looking for something. He looked up. It ducked its head down quickly. Had the man spotted it? It waited for a while and then it peeked over the railing. The man was gone. It groaned. Sloppy, too sloppy. It was losing its grip.

_Bucky._

_Shut up._

It rubbed its temples. Its head was pulsating with pain, filled with violent thoughts, it just wanted silence, it wanted to be wiped. It was getting worse.

_Bucky._

_Stop!_

_Bucky?_

_Wipe me._

_Bucky._

It recoiled and felt sick to its stomach. It was gasping for air, while feeling its stomach trying to cough up its contents. It retched and held its sides.

Too many thoughts. It was getting worse. It needed a handler. It needed to be controlled. It was unstable. It needed a wipe.

It left the roof.

It was climbing down the fire escape when it saw the lights.

"The procedure is complete."

Lights above it, around it. Lights everywhere. Its eyes hurt. A loud whistle covered all the other sounds. Its breathing became shallow and its grip slipped.

It fell down from the fire escape, crashing into a pile of cardboard and trash bags. It groaned in pain as it pushed itself up and tried to get the whistling sound to stop.

_Hurts._

_The Winter Soldier._

_Order. Order comes with pain._

There was a gun pointed at its head. It couldn't see any faces. They were all blurry, they all looked the same. All it could see were the blue and white lights. It started to hit its ears. The whistling was driving it insane.

_Stop it. Please. Stop._

_Bring in the asset._

_I knew him._

Pain. Terrible, unbearable pain. Its arms shackled, cold metal pressing against its bare skin, holding it still. Pain. It was trembling. It was biting something, its jaw clenched. Screams, loud unsettling screams. _It_ was screaming, those were its screams. Its head hurt.

_Friend._

_Shut up._

It just wanted the torture to stop. Its face twisted in pain, holding its head with both hands. So much pain, anger. It blinked its eyes, it still couldn't see. Blind.

_Til the end of the line._

_Stop._

The episode stopped and it was left lying on the pile of garbage, gasping for breath. It just wanted the pain to stop. When was the pain going to stop.


End file.
